


Reciprocity

by C-chan (1001paperboxes)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 01:21:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2832995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1001paperboxes/pseuds/C-chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire examines the times that Combeferre has been there for him, and what can do in return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Thing of Beauty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sovin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sovin/gifts).



> Thanks very much for Estel for commenting and Chell for editing as I wrote this. Your encouragement and support is amazing, and I'm so glad to have you in my life.
> 
> Happy Holidays. I hope you enjoy.

To say that Grantaire’s class schedule is eclectic is to make an understatement. With Classical studies and architecture, sociology and music theory, not to mention the studio art, mathematics, and dance classes, Bahorel had once proudly proclaimed that Grantaire would be the first of them to graduate with a specialist in “Undecided”. Grantaire had been quick to add a minor in “Slacking”, matching Bahorel’s own chosen major.

He’s just walked into the lecture hall for his Political Science course (which he had entered on a dare from said Bahorel when looking at interesting courses to add to his semester. “You might just learn something,” Bahorel had said. “Plus, you’ll probably just write some BS on all the essay questions that there’s bound to be, given how politicians never shut up, and pass the class with flying colours, as usual”) when he catches a glimpse of the most beautiful person he has ever seen.

Long, blond hair cascading over the shoulders of a crisp red shirt that fit just-so, accentuating what looks like a beautiful, lithe figure. She — no, he, he can hear a clear and firm tenor voice coming from him — seems to be deep in a lively conversation with the bespectacled boy next to him. He’s not close enough to overhear (he almost wishes he was) but then class is starting and he doesn’t have time. 

He waits until the other boy has left before leaving, eyes following the blond hair and red shirt as he makes his way out of the lecture hall. He thinks he feels his heart skip a beat. He thinks he might be falling in love. He’s still not quite sure if he believes in love, but if it feels like this, he’ll take it. The class itself is pretty horrible, full of biased opinions and outdated ideals, but he thinks perhaps he will stay, and maybe even come to class, if it means seeing him again. 

 

He sits a little closer each lecture. Never too close, never wanting to be too obvious, but admiring, and getting hints here and there about what he’s like. Enjolras, his name is, though he hasn’t quite caught the friend’s name. The two are close though, and their lively conversations often mimicking what he saw in the first class. Enjolras is more vibrant, the other seeming somehow more placating. Enjolras is sometimes vocal in class too, and every time that voice speaks out it’s music to his ears.

It takes most of the semester, and a ton of equally encouraging and bullying texts from Bahorel, for Grantaire to make any sort of move at all. Enjolras’ hair is pulled back into a ponytail today, and he’s frowning over his notes. His friend is talking to someone else, a boy with a charming smile who’s wearing a striped button-down shirt and a bow tie. Maybe it’s because Enjolras is alone that Grantaire finds the strength. Maybe he’s just ready to throw caution to the wind if it means finally shutting Bahorel up. Either way, he’s in front of the blond now and it’s too late to back out.

“Hi,” he offers, and Enjolras looks up, almost ready to talk before he notes it’s not the person he’s expecting, and ends up frowning slightly instead.

Grantaire takes a breath — he can do this, dammit — and continues.

“Um, I was wondering if, um, if maybe we could… um. Studyorsomethingtogethersometime? There’s a really nice coffeeshop a few blocks off campus and—“

“I’m not interested,” Enjolras states, and Grantaire blinks at the bluntness. “I have a heavy course load on top of being heavily involved with several campaigns on campus. I don’t have time, and as I said I’m just not interested.”

“O-okay,” Grantaire replies, trying to keep himself together and already wondering if he can make his way out before the lecture begins. “So. Um. So nice to have met you.”

Luck’s not on his side; by the time he makes his way back to his things, the professor’s already beginning to speak. He sighs, pencil in hand, and begins doodling, not paying much attention to the contents of the lecture at all.

 

He’s surprised when he looks up after class to see someone, Enjolras’ friend, standing in front of him.

“I saw what happened,” he explained. “Did you try to ask him out?”

“I…” Grantaire begins, unsure whether to be truthful, sarcastic, or to deflect the question completely. Unfortunately, the other man continues before he can respond.

“Don’t worry about it too much?” he offers. “I know that’s not necessarily saying much but… Enjolras, well, to sum it up as my friend Courfeyrac once did, it’s entirely unfair that someone was born who is so attractive to look at that everyone falls at least a little bit in love with him, and yet is interested in no-one himself. That’s not necessarily entirely accurate, but the fact remains, It’s really not you, nor is it necessarily him. He gets hit on regularly, and has started to get a little sick of it. So, while I know you probably meant well….”

“Ace, not interested, yeah, I understand,” Grantaire responds. “Fucking ironic, yeah, like everything in life.”

“But, hey,” the guy offers, “he really is a good person, and a good friend — I don’t want you to think he’s a horrible person. Or him to think that you are, without either of us really knowing you at least. And we’re part of several groups on campus; we actually help run ABC, I don’t know if you’ve heard of us, but we have regular meetings on Wednesday nights. If you’re free, we’re always happy to have new members.”

Grantaire gives a grunt in response, and the guy smiles.

“Think about it anyway; I’m not going to pressure you. We’re hoping to start disability and nontraditional relationship awareness campaigns in the winter semester. I’m Combeferre, by the way, it’s nice to properly meet you.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire replies, and he writes down the details, still not certain whether or not he’ll even bother checking it out.

 

Eventually, he realized that he’d met the love of his life in that class. He… just hadn’t been right about who it was at first.


	2. Posters and other Problems

After that dismal first showing, Grantaire made the wise decision to strike Poli Sci from the list of subjects needed to be explored in any depth to be part of his Undecided degree. However, he still found his feet leading him to the ABC meeting that first Wednesday night, and on several Wednesday nights after.

Combeferre was right; Enjolras is much more warm and approachable in his natural habitat. He isn’t sure if he could call the blond a friend yet, but good terms is a good place to start. And he was on increasingly good terms with Combeferre as well; Combeferre had made sure that Grantaire felt at home in the group, not that it took much for that to happen. As it turned out, Bahorel was already well aware of the group, and was far too happy to come along, especially as it meant hanging out with long-time member and good verbal sparring buddy, Jean Prouvaire.

(“You have to listen to him sometime!” Bahorel exclaimed one night as they hung around in their dorm, beers open and notebooks piled in a corner of the room in non-working solidarity. “I bet you’ve never heard anyone give a passionate, fact-checked speech in iambic pentameter. And that’s not even mentioning his slam poetry proper. I mean damn!”)

The group was rounded out by an eclectic mix of individuals; an inseparable trio who had already adopted Grantaire as their unofficial fourth and who had invited him to a bar night in (as they call it), another three who seem to be doing an awkward flirty dance around each other all the time (he still isn’t quite sure if it’s just a love triangle or if something more complicated is going on there); that charming guy from the Poli Sci lecture (who he had since learned is named Courfeyrac, and really is that charming all the time), and a boy who, if Grantaire heard everything correctly (and he’s pretty sure he did) is currently juggling two part-time jobs even though he has a full ride on tuition, and still manages to be part of at least half a dozen on-campus clubs and organizations.

By the time their winter campaigns are properly underway, he is actually starting to feel like a regular. He’s friends with the group, and has even managed to contribute some opinions that have helped shape the ABC’s progress (alongside a lot of opinions that have been met with laughter, eye rolling, or in far too many cases, both from different members, of course. But such is Grantaire’s nature; snark suits him and he is not going to forsake it any time soon). And so, when assignments are being handed out for putting up posters around the campus to advertise the next phase of their campaign, it only seems natural that he volunteer to help. And the posters were going to be ready on Tuesday evening, when he only has studio in the morning, so it’s decided that he’s the perfect candidate to go, pick them up, and bring them to the meeting on Wednesday.

And then Tuesday came, and Tuesday went. Or really, Monday had come, and Monday had been horrible, and Grantaire, not wanting to face the world, had barricaded himself in his room on Tuesday for a day of games, movies, and thinking as little as possible in lieu of yelling at the screen and button mashing, forgetting all about the posters.

And then it’s Wednesday, and Grantaire is halfway through his early evening dance class by the time he remembers at all. He nearly tripped when he realized (almost wishes he did. A twisted ankle would serve him right) and ends up contemplating his options in the shower. There’s not enough time to get the posters now, and if he tried, the meeting would be over by the time he’d be back. Not for the first time, he considers skipping it altogether, but that’s out too. Letting everyone down would be bad enough. Keeping everyone hanging, even if it meant delaying the inevitable… the thought somehow makes him feel even more sick. 

He ends wandering around the student centre for half an hour before finally working up the courage to go in, his cell phone having buzzed no less than seventeen times in the interim. There’s a lump in his throat as he gets ready to interrupt what is sure to be a lively conversation about… something… and explain what had happened and apologize for being such a fuck-up (as always, his mind is generous enough to supply). 

The words die in his throat as he sees Enjolras handing out those very posters to everyone. Stunned, he somehow makes his way to the only empty seat; a chair beside Combeferre, who was already holding a large stack of the posters.

“Bahorel told me that you hadn’t left the house yesterday,” Combeferre explains, “so I swung by the copy centre on my way in this morning to see if the posters were still there.”

“I’m sorry you had to take over for me,” Grantaire offers. “I’m such a…”

“It’s fine, and you’re not,” Combeferre promises. “I know this is a little forward, but I’ve noticed that you put yourself down a lot, and sometimes you seem to be having problems. If you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here, okay? Let me have your cell phone number…..”

Grantaire dumbly nods and passed over his phone, and Combeferre quickly texts himself before saving the contact and handing the phone back.

“Is there any way I can make it up to you?” Grantaire wonders, once he’s pretty sure he has control over his words again.

“Well, I do have this large stack of posters,” Combeferre notes. “Having some help in putting them up wouldn’t be bad. Are you free after the meeting?”

 

And that’s how Grantaire ends up spending a long evening helping Combeferre go around the science buildings to put posters on all the community bulletin boards. They talk about several things as they work, the conversation veering quickly from what it must be like to volunteer in a sleep lab to dreams about daleks, to who makes the best doctor, and whether the actor’s other work should contribute to said decision (Tom Baker was pretty amazing, Combeferre notes, but SylvesterMcCoy’s now a wizard, and that’s got to count for something, right?), to quick fire movie trivia back and forth. 

It’s only after he’s home and has flopped onto his bed that his mind latches onto the question: exactly who had helped whom tonight?


	3. A Viking Funeral

“Well fuck,” Bahorel states, and Grantaire looks up from the assignment he’s currently trying to finish before its midnight deadline.

“That doesn’t sound good,” he notes, unhelpfully.

“No shit,” Bahorel agrees. “Just got an email. Dear Mr. Bahorel, we are pleased to inform you that you have fulfilled all necessary requirements for your degree….”

“Wait what?” Grantaire asked. “In what?”

“Pre-law, apparently.”

Grantaire gives a low whistle. “How the hell’d you manage that?”

“You know, I have no idea.”

“Just think,” Grantaire offers. “After, wait, how long have you been here again?”

“Seven and a half years.”

“After seven and a half years, you’re on your way to becoming a lawyer.”

Bahorel shudders. “Don’t say that word.”

“Still, man, congrats. A lot better than being kicked out for being too untraditional in pursuing a bachelor’s degree in Slacking.”

“I don’t know about that,” Bahorel admits. “Graduating means not living here anymore. Mom’s gonna want me home for a bit, and then… actually getting work and stuff. You know?”

“Yeah, but you can still visit, and there’s always Skype and stuff, right?”

“Right,” Bahorel agrees, “but man. It’s still gonna suck to leave.”

 

It doesn’t hit Grantaire until much later what Bahorel leaving means on a more personal level. Since second semester of first year — his first year, not Bahorel’s, of course — they’d been renting a place together, splitting the cost.

He can’t afford it on his own, and most people won’t be looking for a new place to live, not halfway through the school year.

Well fuck indeed.

 

Bahorel had gotten up at the beginning of tonight’s ABC meeting and announced his news: that this fall semester would, somehow, be his last, and that there will be a proper viking funeral for his student life as soon as he can find a good lake in which to sail a pyre of school notes to Valhalla.

As usual, it’s Combeferre who approaches him, rather than the other way around. 

“How are you,” Combeferre asks, and Grantaire shrugs, rather than giving any sort of verbal answer. Combeferre seems to take that in stride though, and continues.

“We’re all going to miss him, you know. Bahorel is an amazing person, and it’s hard to believe that he’s going to be gone — he’s been here almost twice as long as most students ever are, you know. Some people get a doctorate in that amount of — but anyway. I can only imagine what sort of a roommate he’d be. Not someone that I’d really mesh well with, but probably great for you. I’m just… not really boisterous enough to appreciate someone like him in that sphere, but I still appreciate him.”

“Shouldn’t you be telling him all this?” Grantaire wonders.

“I have, and I will,” Combeferre promises. “But I also wanted you to know, if you ever needed it, my couch is always open, okay?”

Grantaire nods again, then lets his attention shift back to his drink. Combeferre, taking the message, goes off to talk to Enjolras, then Courfeyrac, then Bahorel to share his well-wishes and fond pre-farewells.

 

The Viking funeral actually ends up happening in the spring, mid-semester, the day after his graduation proper. There was some debate over whether to put the diploma in the fire as well, but it is generally decided that an effigy will do, thus saving the real one for such horrendous eventualities as having to show proof of graduation in something as fearsome as pre-law (Bossuet shuddered too when that thought was presented, and Joly nodded knowingly). It is followed by a night of drinking, rousing songs, and a Mythbusters marathon.

When Bahorel asks, Grantaire admits to being the denizen of Combeferre’s couch, which he is trying to proclaim a sovereign nation, complete with flag, crest, anthem, and some random latin phrases all scrawled onto a series of napkins, kept under the right cushion for prosperity. (“It’s the national library,” he jokes.) 

The couch, however, eventually turns into a bed, at first somewhat smuggled against the occupancy limit, then officially as Combeferre talks Grantaire into taking up a two-bedroom apartment with him the following fall. Combeferre couldn’t be a more different roommate than Bahorel and yet, somehow, it still all clicks.

 

To be honest, Grantaire isn’t sure what he thinks of it all. He’s also not sure if he’ll ever be able to repay Combeferre for everything he’s done. But right now, that doesn’t matter. Right now there’s a warm bed and a worn copy of Game of Thrones that Bahorel left him, and he promised to Skype after getting to the part where Sean Bean dies. And if that’s anything like in the show, it’s going to make for an interesting night’s reading.


	4. Bad Days

There are days when Grantaire can hardly get out of bed. Days when it’s all he can do to look at the pile of assignments, or his general to do list, or, hell, his cell phone, and try to hold back the frustrated tears.

He and Bahorel had worked out a system with these; Bahorel more than happy for another excuse to skip lectures. (“It’s merely cutting down on a poor, overworked, underpaid sessional lecturer’s workload,” Bahorel explained. “They go through a lot; the last thing they need is this lumbering oaf asking essay-worthy questions five times a lecture.” Grantaire had never been sure whether to argue against him, or wonder how precisely he managed to do that in every class he attended, so Bahorel usually ended up winning the argument.) If it was a good sort of bad day when Grantaire just needed distraction and to forget about the real world, they’d play video games and have a nerf gun battles and order pizza and wings. If it was a bad-bad day, when getting out of bed was hardly an option to begin with and food was pretty much out of the question, Bahorel would leave him the fuck alone as requested, with the occasional check-in to make sure he was still breathing and to drop off another glass of water.

But that was then. And Bahorel isn’t here now. Bahorel’s back home, helping out around Bahorel farm with his army of siblings, who he is probably corralling up for a wild adventure of some sort. And Grantaire is living with Combeferre, who has never seen him like this before. Who probably has never skipped a day of class in his life. Who is sure now to think him lazy or stupid or worthless or, well, all the things Grantaire keeps on calling himself anyway, but this is different, dammit, because Combeferre is supposed to believe in him and think him better than this. Another disappointment, he thinks, pulling the blankets even tighter around himself and wanting nothing more than to go back to sleep and wake up to find that the apocalypse had occurred in the interim.

He ignored the first round of knocking, and the second. He grunted at the third, which apparently Combeferre took as permission to come in because he’s here now, kneeling beside the bed, hand on the lump of sheets cocooning him somewhere around his shoulder.

“Are you okay?” Combeferre asks, and he sounds concerned. (Of course he is, Grantaire supplies for himself; it’s got to be after noon by now and he hasn’t so much as stepped foot outside of his room.) Still, he doesn’t really offer a response; a slight grunt, a tug on the blankets.

“I suppose that is a silly question,” Combeferre says, as if agreeing with Grantaire’s unspoken words. “Is there anything I can do? Would it help to talk?”

Grantaire shakes his head no.

“That’s fair,” Combeferre replies. “Or rather I’m Ferre, but, look. I’m going to be out there working on my thesis. If you need anything, feel free to call, or come out. This isn’t due for a while, and I really don’t mind being bothered, okay?”

Combeferre must take this silence for a yes as well, because he heads out of the room a moment later, pausing only to pet his head a moment, moving a few stray strands out of his face. Grantaire isn’t sure whether to be frustrated or grateful, but thankfully sleep does claim him once more, and he whiles away a few more restless hours in unconsciousness.

 

Combeferre is still there a few hours later when he gets up to use the washroom, and somehow his feet end up taking him to the couch, rather than the bed. He flops down beside Combeferre, and leans on him before his mind can freak out over whether or not that’s a good idea. Thankfully, Combeferre just wraps an arm around him and holds him there for a moment or three before even bothering to speak.

“Feeling any better?” he asks eventually, and Grantaire shakes his head in response.

“And you still can’t talk about it?”

Grantaire shrugs. “Everything’s just crap, and I’m no exception. That’s all. Not much to really talk about.”

There’s a brief moment when he thinks that Combeferre’s going to argue the point (and he could, probably should. There’s a lot of good things in the world after all, present company included, but all the crap, himself included, just tend to ruin it for everyone) but Combeferre just sighs and rubs his arm.

“Let me know when you do, okay?” he offers instead. “I have a feeling that, whatever it is, it’s not new. Like the day with the posters, probably. And I’d like to know what’s up, and if there is something we can do in the longterm, but that does not need to happen right now. If you want, you can turn on the TV, or just watch me work, or we can talk. Whatever you like.”

 

It’s not until a few hours of listening to Combeferre typing and occasionally helping to find the right word (for which Combeferre always thanks and compliments him) that Grantaire realizes something is off.

“Didn’t you have a class at four?” he asks, not bothering to dislodge himself at all as he talks half-against Combeferre’s shoulder.

“I was supposed to,” Combeferre agrees, “but some things are more important than class. Your wellbeing happens to be one of them.”

“It’s really not,” Grantaire argues.

“It is to me, and that’s not up for outside discussion. You are free to rank things differently.”

And just like with Bahorel, Grantaire has nothing to say to that, so Combeferre ends up winning the argument, if he even can consider it one.

 

Combeferre makes sure he at least gets something in him (a mug of tea, and another full of some chocolate chip concoction that’s halfway between a cake and a cookie and actually isn’t bad for something that came out of a microwave) and offers to share a bed with him if Grantaire doesn’t want to be alone tonight. He feels like it takes a lot more than it should to admit that he really doesn’t. And so he ends up sleeping in Combeferre’s bed, still a little tense and down, but at least content in the knowledge that yeah, he’s going to get back up again, and Combeferre will probably be there to catch him if he falls.


	5. Three Small Words

But it’s not just the big things, not just the epic fuck-ups or the days of utter exhaustion, or the ways that life liked to screw him over. No. It’s all the little things too.

It’s picking him up at 3am after a night of drinking and carousing. It’s always finding time to proofread his essays, and sometimes helping him find the research he needs. Heck, it’s reminding him to do his assignments, or to clean the kitchen when it’s his turn on the chore schedule. It’s reminding him to take his new meds, sometimes placing his plastic pill organizer (one of the MTWTFSS ones, blue for the evening) beside the dinner he’s eating on the living room floor, hour-long cutscene too far underway to want to pause or restart. It’s tucking him in and kissing his head when he falls asleep on the couch, and offering hugs and to share a bed when he can’t seem to sleep at all.

It’s making sure that Grantaire has a place to stay over the summer, when Combeferre is going home and knows that he won’t want to. It’s not minding when Bahorel comes over for a few weeks at a time, and they play video games non-stop. It’s admitting that he saved the plans for Couchtopia, and asking if he will redo them so that they’re in a decent enough condition to be framed and placed above said couch.

It’s caring for him, encouraging him, (dare he say it?) loving him.

 

Stupid, perfect Combeferre.


	6. What He Can Do

Being a grad student is tough. Grantaire has certainly seen enough to know this second-hand. Somehow, December seems to be a month when the statement rings particularly true. Between preparing for his own exams, marking papers for the course he’s TA-ing, and working on grant, scholarship, and doctoral applications, not to mention Christmas parties, general holiday celebrations, and the three holiday drives that ABC and other groups were running around campus, Grantaire was sometimes surprised that Combeferre found the time to breathe, let alone eat, sleep, and get everything done.

He managed, and that much was clear and nearly awe-inspiring. However, Grantaire couldn’t help but notice the toll it took on Combeferre. The circles under his eyes were getting darker. He almost seemed paler, thinner, transparent, when he was around at all. Even his temper, usually endless, was starting to fray, sometimes snapping out short quips before apologizing, rubbing his eyes, and refocussing on his laptop or the stack of papers he was slowly working himself through. Grantaire was losing track of the number of days in which Combeferre had gone to bed at around the same time as him, only to wake up to an empty apartment or Combeferre already hard at work and halfway through his second or third cup of coffee or tea in the morning.

Being able to just focus on commissions, and the occasional shift at the Musain when someone wasn’t able to make it in was relaxing in comparison, even if there were a few more of them now that students were starting to head home for the holidays. 

Being on a flexible schedule, however, also leaves him with a bit more time on his hands, and he realizes one day just how to put that to use. It just takes a few stops after his morning shift (relatively quiet, a number of students buying large, heavily caffeinated beverages to get them through the last of their cramming and exams), and then he’s headed home to prepare.

 

If he had any doubts about wasting his day, they’re all erased a minute after Combeferre comes through the door, haggard and worn. He perks up first at the scent; vanilla and cinnamon, and a plethora of other spices filling the air, and then seems to notice the state of the apartment. It may have been sloppily decorated, Grantaire not really having the time or effort to do much more than put up a small tree, place one ornament on it (a la Charlie Brown), and throw a couple knick knacks here and there, including a wreath now hanging over the top row of their DVD shelf, but that’s still significantly more holiday decoration than the two Christmas cards on the kitchen table beforehand.

“If you can afford it at all, you’re taking tonight off,” Grantaire tells Combeferre, poking his head out of the kitchen.

“What did you do here?” Combeferre asks, still taking in the sight of everything.

“It’s Christmas,” Grantaire explains with a shrug. “And I haven’t made cinnamon buns or cookies in the figurative forever. Go get changed or whatever, I’m going to make tea. Chai’s good, right? Um, oh, and I got a Muppet Christmas Carol for us to watch. I figure that if we’re going to watch the Classics, we may as well go with a version we’ll both both like.”

“That sounds amazing,” Combeferre admits. “But why…?”

“You’ve been working your ass off for weeks,” Gantaire explains. “You really, really, need a break,”

“Fair enough,” Combeferre allows.

“Good. Um, ten, maybe fifteen minutes, and I’ll have everything ready on the couch? I can even give you a massage if you want.”

“I… I really would,” Combeferre admits. “Thank you, Grantaire. Thank you so much.”

 

Two hours later, when Ebenezer Scrooge wakes full of Christmas cheer and he and all the Muppets go join the Cratchits for Christmas dinner, he and Combeferre are cuddled up together on the couch, the latter happier and more relaxed looking than Grantaire has seen him in quite a while. All he can do is smile. Okay, that and snuggle in closer to Combeferre’s side and humming along to the song about the love we’ve found. 

He may not be the kind of person who’s amazing at everything. He may be a general fuck-up who is passably good at a number of things, and only very good at a few, but he can do this. He can be here for Combeferre when Combeferre needs him, just like Combeferre always is for him. And maybe that’s the most important thing he can possibly be.

Right now, he’d like to think that it is.


	7. Epilogue

Things are never going to be quite equal. Grantaire knows that as time passes and his relationship grows deeper with Combeferre. Combeferre is very good at giving help, is amazing at being there for Grantaire, but he finds it very hard to ask for help himself. Grantaire sometimes feels like he just can’t, and asking is next to impossible, even though it might be thing that’s needed most.

But they learn to understand each other, learn each other’s tells. It’s not perfect; sometimes they’re really good at hiding the signs, and sometimes they’re very busy. Sometimes they hit their lows at the same time, and it takes a while before either can truly manage to give the other the help and support that they really need. But usually, more often than not, it works and they can be there for each other whether it’s lending a hand, proofreading a paper, reminding to take pills, doing the laundry and dishes for fifth and sixteenth time in a row respectively, making sure the other eats, or even just giving a hug and being there physically.

Maybe it’s this constant back and forth, of caring and doing what they can, that explains why they managed to plan to propose to each other on the same day. Or maybe it was their friends planning behind their backs; Bahorel had cackled with glee, and Jehan had had a knowing gleam in his eyes when Grantaire had first mentioned his plans, and Joly and Bossuet had been unable to stop smiling. On the other hand, that was pretty much normal behaviour for all of them, so it was really hard to tell.

But either way, as he fiddles with the ring on his finger, tracing the geometric etchings upon it (a little fancier than the ring he had gotten Combeferre, at least on the outside; the inside etched with the pattern of soundwaves created by Grantaire’s own voice as he said “forever”) he couldn’t be happier.

 

Relationships, after all, were meant to be built on give and take. On love, support, and doing what you could for each other, so everyone could be the best that they could be, no matter how big or small those ambitions were, and no matter where they lead. And with Combeferre, not the most handsome man he’s ever met (no, no-one could ever match Enjolras there. And Enjolras would eventually stand beside Combeferre as best man, as Bahorel flanked Grantaire. Enjolras would never live far away from them, and in time would become a close friend, even to him, and that too would seem amazing) but certainly the most caring, most understanding, and, frankly, a better person than Grantaire ever could have, ever would have asked for, Grantaire could believe that this could happen.

And if he can give back what he can, even if it’s just stupid little things every now and again, well, maybe he could help make Combeferre an even better person as well. You know, if that was even possible. Grantaire isn’t sure if he thinks it is, but he’s willing to try nonetheless.

Relationships work better when the love and caring is reciprocal, after all.


End file.
